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Played in my Head

I am trying to find meaning in meaninglessness.
By complying with faith,
And be played in the hands of an unknown destiny;
I am trusting to make gold out of copper by planting seeds in this barren land.
This journey into the unknown is but an outcome of a predetermined plan.

This illusion of a world seems no place for me,
Still I am trying to adjust and adapt,
In daylong efforts to attain what I lack, 
And through life-long struggles,
I try to cut myself some slack.

All so paradoxical is this universe, predestination, and time.
Thinking about how I live and will die, love and despise,
Smile and cry, hope and then sigh.
I fire this earth, and light up the sky.
And just like most, I too will pass by.

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Dear Life

Fantasizing a fall is not what wise suggest
Care not because life perpetually wrests
Foolish or the wise, they all lest
You know it when your heart comes pounding out of the chest

My darling, what should I tell you about it
The sadness that eats you in bits
Or the importance of showing grit
Tell me why should we care, this life is but a skit

We all come and we all go
Set afloat in a never-ending flow
Time is a tactical foe, this much we all know
O don’t feel low; there is nothing that you owe.

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Between a Monster and a Woman

This is the story of a frightened man and a courageous woman. It goes as follows:

It was during the winter season when a man found himself wandering the streets in the middle of the night. From one street to another; lamp after the other; block after block; under the starry sky, he kept walking through the gloominess. It was fairly dark and quiet – one could hear the hoots of the owls and the barking of the dogs from the far distant neighborhoods. The only permanent sound was that of the crickets chirping.

The night was dull as any other night until this man who was rambling like a lost soul confronted a woman. The lady was in her mid-thirties – small height, tan complexion, and a slightly stout body. She had a tired face, bore heavy eyes and a dark oily skin which probably resulted from sweat-working all day. She was carrying a backpack on her right shoulder, and a small bag of packed-food in her left hand.

This man, surprised for a good few seconds, wondered what would a lady be doing out in the street this late. He also imagined the amount of courage it would require to be out at this hour in a society where safety and security are but forgotten vows. Even though it is hard to find the rationale behind the biases and prejudices that govern our cultures especially in terms of gender; however, the ones that surround the working women often get baffling. Apparently, just another member of the society, but one whose rights, decisions, ways and legitimacy for doing things are always questioned.

The man was still thinking about it when he saw three patrolmen passing by. They were wearing khaki-coloured uniforms with a weary posture and jaundiced eyes. As soon as they saw the lady, they stopped her and started questioning her about where she was coming from and headed to. She gently responded to their concerns even though it was none of their concern, but that didn’t satisfy the patrolmen. They started following the lady – dauntingly up close.

The man, who was at a slight distance from the two parties was seeing all this. He got frightened, not for himself but the lady he had been wondering about. Running to the scene while playing the witness card, he somehow managed to keep the woman out of trouble. He asked the lady about what had happened. In reply, the woman told him the questions she was being asked and how she was being followed. The man took hold of the situation and decided to walk the lady to her apartment which was not more than a few hundred meters away.  

While they were about to reach, the lady said, “Who is to protect us if the ones holding the reins to our society are corrupt at their cores?” It was a sad state of affairs for both. The man was frightened because he could identify in himself a monster, one that was feared on the streets, at the workplaces, and at homes. He could see a mirror image of a ravenous monster – one that could not be trusted in the dark. It was, however, different on the other side. He saw courage staring at him through that woman – it was strangely overwhelming.  

He dropped off the woman at her place, and the two bade goodbye to each other.   

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The Call

In the midst of morning glory
And the dark of night
A voice calls me
It calls me to respond
A little of action and a little of devotion it demands
Every day it does, with the same words
—
This voice I hear
Sensing it through something deep inside
Not with the ears, not with any other sense
Raises a new set of emotions as it does
From head to toe, it produces an effect, an undeniable effect
This voice: so magical, these words: so powerful
—
Less awake more asleep
Little effect this creates on my sleep
A few rolls on the bed, a few yawns to exhale
Unaware of the surroundings
Once again, I drown
Deeper into the embrace of ecstasy
—
In a corner of my sub-conscience
These words lie like gems in a dark cave
Radiant as the morning light
Likes scattered diamonds they shine
Thus illuminating everything within
This light so divine
—
Creates as it does
A thirst inside me
To drown in the ocean of perfection
To fill me from the ocean of perfection
In the midst of the growing struggle between falling deeper
And rising higher, I rise.
— — — —
Fahad Asif

Continue reading “The Call”

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The Law Of Man Is Not Enough

Long ago in the age of darkness and medieval-ism, there existed a time when the minds and hearts of people were governed by pride and prejudice. The world, back then was divided – divided into the elite and dregs, priests and laymen, blacks and whites, Brahmins and Shudras. There were laws that constructed or destructed fates for people based on what cast they belonged to; the color of skin they possessed; the social class they were part of. Humanity laid rotten – and with it, humans as well. I have wondered if cast or class, race or creed the scale to measure the merits of dignity and humane treatment each deserves, please answer?

There was one such place where the humanity was unevenly divided between the high and low. The low ranked individuals – low from birth, inherited a fate no sane would opt for; their right to health, safety, and education was all denied – justice as well. And by whom? The same fleshy humans differentiated merely by ranks and classes, who kept all the good that was there for themselves. There were laws – set by the elite, for the elite. favoring the elite. What is rule of law if not based on equality, please answer?

The classes were apart, laws strict, and punishments severe. Amidst all this, a mother found herself over-ruled by maternal affection. Asking would have only caused disappointment, therefore, the lady, blinded by love, went on to take a bolder step – she started stealing for her child – sometimes food, sometimes toys, sometimes books. She would hide the items under her robe, avoid suspicion, and escape to her beloved, her child. I have often wondered how is love found at the heart of all courage, please answer?

But the universe had other plans – one day while stealing, the poor lady got caught.  Beaten ruthlessly by her mistress, she was dragged in front of a council in whose hands, her faith now lied. The lady stood there – bruised and broken. Being helpless in the face of fate is its own kind of sad. Anyways, the decision was made quick: the lady’s hands were to be chopped off in a public setting. Which life to take, and which to spare, who decides what and why, please answer?

She did steal after all – her act was punishable, and demanded justice. She was, therefore, brought to the center of the market, to be seen by everyone. Brought in and held up by those who belonged from the same class as she did – both were helpless. Silence fell upon, and everything stopped – bodies, breaths, and hearts, as if dead. Before the blade struck and screams spread, the lady asked but one question: Which is the bigger sin – being a thief or a mother, please answer?

The bell rang, and order was given – DO IT!

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Confronting Rumination

Woven in thoughts like wool
Actions I made were cruel
Oppressions showered under the rule
Beneath the sky,
I now sit like a fool.

Sin is but a small word
Committed in a smaller world
Through tyranny, chaos hurled
East to west,
It whirled.

Blame the dark and the light
Curse satan,
And curse life
Confined vision, almost blind
Curse everything, dear dippy-mind.

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Art is a burden (Part-1)

There was once a young man who took delight in playing with words – he would sometimes combine those words, draft his thoughts on a piece of paper, and pen down a poem or two. It was his escape, he said, like most people his age.

The boy, driven by the charm of youthfulness yearned for notability, acknowledgment, and a bit of esteem for his works. And why wouldn’t he, he wrote well and beautiful. The young man would go around, and present his poems, with pride, to his acquaintances and friends and they all admired him for his literary creations.

One day, the young man went on to show his favorite writings to a teacher that he strongly admired, a teacher from whom he had learned much about the realities of life -little did he know that writing for him was never going to be same again. A gripping truth was bound to be presented to the disciple, a reality that few would understand – and his artwork was soon destined to lose all its meaning.

And so, the boy, in great confidence, very proudly presented his written craft to the teacher who thoroughly read all of it, in silence. There was a rising atmosphere of restlessness and equanimity battling between the disciple and his teacher. After a while the teacher spoke up, with words that made the boy question his passion and talent down to the core, he said: “My dear student, you hold great power with the pen, surely you can write. But I must tell you that writing alone is not enough. You must also write what is right, and better not publish it unless you feel light about it within. Remember, writing like all other forms of art is a responsibility that a writer must bear with great conduct – only then can it pierce through the hearts of people, and only then can it touch their souls.”

The young man left the place, and he did not write again…

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An Old Man’s Socks

Outside, since morning, it was raining endlessly – it seemed like winters had conquered this town, once again; the breeze was cold, air thin, and roads damped. While inside the mosque where it was comparatively warm, I stood next to an old man with wrinkles on his face, and tremble in his hands. From his dressing, one would identify him as a security guard; you know those local guards in blue uniforms standing and stopping us at more or less every entry of an office or a building. Yes, those guards. As I finished my prayer, I opened up my long list of demands and requirements whose fulfillment I intended – I asked for much and thanked for little. It was until I consciously observed this old man on my left bowing down humbly, standing feebly, and involved rather intensely in his conversation with God. I couldn’t help but notice his feet; the number of holes that his socks bore, I failed to count – and the plastic bags that he wore underneath those socks, I successfully espied. Can’t say if I felt grateful or grief-stricken at that moment, but I was certainly influenced by the wealth of faith and belief that this old man held, and I didn’t. 

I am still not sure who amongst us was more satisfied and who, richer?

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Through life, You and I

How do I say what I want to say?
There’s much that’s buried inside,
Forcibly, I have tried,
And yet, it’s still alive.
—
How do I explain what I want to explain?
There are oceans of words that lie,
Screaming, I have tried,
But it’s all futile.
— —
And how do I know what I want to know?
There’s little that aligns,
Books, I have tried,
Still, orientation is always denied.
 — — —
How do I love what I want to love?
There’s much that I have sacrificed,
Sleepless, I have lied,
But Longing is all I have acquired.
 — — — —
How do I kill what I want to kill?
There’s much that’s living inside,
Emotions, I have concealed
Yet the roaring lion never sleeps.
— — — — —
And in the end, I said what I wanted to say,
With words that left you in grey
I am as you are – half broken but fully alive,
Wading through life, we smile.
— — — — — —
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Human Connection

Conversation to a connection,

Paved by feelings of imperfection,

With all the dots and lines,

Of the trails and the trials

Empathy works just fine. 

_ _ _

And from a Glance to an insight, 

Constructed by sharing delight,

Of a seed that breeds-

A baseline for higher emotional flights.

And yet, it demands no plight. 

_ _ _
 

Like a bond of a thousand worn chains,  

Fashioned by timely strains, 

Of a sword’s strike that brutally slain,

Nonetheless,

the chain stands unbreakably insane.  

_ _ _
 
Determined to deign

heartfelt joys and pain, 

scatters feelings like grains,

the enlightenment that each soul attains,

It so feels like rain but on a distant plain.

_ _ __ _ _
 

-Fahad Asif
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